


how can i ever change things that i feel?

by coastcitytourism



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hopeful ending?, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, domestic cuteness, i think i might mention others, like momentarily sickfic, no explicit sex, whoo thats a lot of ground to cover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 03:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: 4 times they didn't have to say I love you, and 1 time they did.





	how can i ever change things that i feel?

**Author's Note:**

> no, im not dead!  
been swamped and a bit mentally unwell lately so i took a break from writing to publish, but im back and doing better for now! anyways, this is a mess of ficlets and scenes bc god knows i love writing those, theyre not the most organized thing ive ever written but.....yeah.  
title is from go your own way by fleetwood mac  
as always, this is a work of fiction. nothing is real. please do not publish or share elsewhere without my permission

1.

They're both back at Pierre's apartment in Bologna, cooking dinner together. Pierre's in an old team shirt and a pair of threadbare sweatpants and Charles doesn't look that much better in hideously green gym shorts and a stained gray hoodie he yanked from Pierre's closet, but it doesn't matter anyway. Pierre has tasked Charles with cutting up ingredients (or, more fittingly, Charles has forced himself into the task, gently reminding Pierre of what happened the last time he got a little frisky with his chopping skills and how the Urgent Care had been extremely excited to get an F1 driver in their waiting room), himself rolling out dough on a floured cutting board on the massive island.

"Pierre. You live in Italy," Charles complains, sets his knife down and leans against the edge of the counter to pout, "There are literally a thousand different places with good pizza. Why are we making it?"

"Because," Pierre answers simply, turns around from where two somewhat round discs of dough have been flattened out in front of him. He flicks his flour covered hand at Charles and laughs when the Monegasque reels in shock, white powder sticking to his face. Charles picks up an olive and tosses it at Pierre, his aim spot on when it bounces off the Frenchman's temple and onto the hardwood floor.

"You didn't answer my question," Charles pries once again, setting his knife in the sink and nudging Pierre in the ass he goes by. Pierre tenses up for a moment and then relaxes, gesturing wildly with the rolling pin in his hand.

"When's the last time we had a night in, huh?" he quips, waving the utensil around and coating his own kitchen with a fine layer of flour, "Plus I watched a video on Instagram and it looked cute, so..."

"You're dumb," Charles states in a rather matter-of-fact way, but he's smiling like a madman. It's only a few steps to close the gap between them, and Charles has never had any problem forcing his wsy right into Pierre's personal space. The rolling pin is pried from Pierre's hands and the board that the dough is on is scooted safely away, and before Charles has any idea what else is happening, Pierre's sitting on the smooth counter and Charles is standing between his legs. Pierre is holding his face, kissing him so hard he feels like the air has been knocked out of his chest. He decides it's almost comparable to going through a high-G corner, the way Pierre makes him feel, on edge and giddy with adrenaline.

Charles own hands struggle to find purchase against the granite edge of Pierre's kitchen counter in a futile attempt to brace himself against the sheer amount of force from Pierre, who has no reservations about licking his way into Charles mouth and being the reason why the Monegasque lets out a pathetic whine. They only pull away from each other when it feels like the only other option is for their faces to turn blue, but Charles keeps his forehead pressed against Pierre's even as they both pant for air.

"Jesus Christ, Pierre," Charles whispers, his entire body filling with pure adoration when Pierre just gives him a beaming smile.

"I told you I wanted a night in," Pierre laughs, and then his face falls blank. It's startling, to say the least, and Charles does everything he can to keep his furrowed brows in a neutral expression.

"Fuck. I forgot to buy the pizza sauce," Pierre states simply, smacking himself in the forehead with his palm, and Charles feels himself relax, rests his head against Pierre's shoulder and laughs softly.

"Guess we'll have to order a pizza then," he whispers, wraps his arms around the Frenchman's waist and leans onto him. Pierre's own ankles find each other crossed behind Charles's thighs, keeping him as close as physically possible.

"Yeah. Guess so. We probably would've burnt it anyways," he laughs, resting his cheek on the top of Charles head, feeling the soft scratch of unruly hair on his face. The peace is only broken by Charles' murmured voice-

"You would've burnt it. Not me."

2\. 

Monaco is a disaster, and Charles is pissed. Really, if he didn't think that the team would throw a fit about it, he thinks he's already have put his fist through some sheetrock- it's an embarrassment to do so damn poorly at your home race, he's an embarrassment. The only consolation he has is the ability to go home to his own bed.

And he does exactly that- where else do you have the freedom to scream into a pillow for as long as you want? It's sort of relieving, he thinks, stomping and sulking around his own house and throwing as much of a fit as he wants in the privacy of his own bedroom. Here, there is no Ferrari, no team politics or strategy to consider- just white sheets and four familiar walls that seem eternally accepting of his emotions.

When a solid knock knock vibrates the thick front door and Charles is broken from his personal vendetta, thinks if looks could kill he's going to murder whoever it is bothering him when he's upset-

"Hey," Pierre's voice rings clearly in the entryway. He's out of his team gear, dressed as well as ever in a pair of tight fitting jeans and a white crewneck. There's a single red rose in his hand, and Charles has to resist the urge to roll his eyes at it- Pierre Gasly, ever the romantic. 

"Heard you might want some company?" Pierre quips, inviting himself into Charles apartment and handing him the flower with a crooked grin that makes the skin around his eyes crinkle.

"Actually," Charles starts, fingers absentmindedly playing with the soft petals, "I was doing just fine alone. Wallowing in my own despair."

"Oh, come on," Pierre replies back, sounding jokingly exasperated. He flops himself down on one of the soft couches in the living room, watches quietly as Charles does the same thing across from him, the Monegasque crossing his legs under himself neatly.

"Surely it wasn't that bad?"

"Speak for yourself, babe," Charles says, voice edged with something deadly, "Second home race that I've fucked up and not finished."

Pierre looks taken aback for a moment, lets the words settle into the air before he answers. "Qualifying wasn't your fault. The puncture wasn't your fault."

"Right, but tearing the floor apart was. I did something stupid and ruined my entire race," Charles says, one corner of his mouth twitching up into an unhappy smirk.

"Charles..." Pierre reaches out for the younger man's hand, interlinks their fingers even if the position his arm is in is sort of uncomfortable.

"Save it. I'm alright, just a bit upset with myself. Nothing you can say will change it," Charles snaps quickly, calms back down equally as quickly. "I'm proud of you though, you did great. Fastest lap looked great."

"Yeah. I enjoyed it," Pierre says quietly, eyes focused on their intertwined fingers. He then realizes his thumb is stroking the back of Charles, softly and subconciously, smiles a bit at himself. "Car actually felt alright today."

A moment of pause falls over the room like a sheet, with only the sounds of synchronized breaths and Monte-Carlo traffic outside the ceiling to floor windows interrupting the comfortable peace. Charles stands up, unspeaking, and takes the two steps it takes before he can fall into Pierre's lap.

"Oh, okay," the Frenchman says with a huff, breaking the silence with a quiet interjection, but he wraps his arms around Charles's waist anyway.

"Just hold me for a minute, please," Charles whispers into his ear, enjoying the way Pierre shivers and then nods. "I almost punched a hole through the wall after the debrief earlier," he admits, playing with a cowlicked lock of hair on Pierre's nape.

"Glad you didn't," the older man gently responds, letting Charles hold him and be held and get out the last burning embers of prior emotion. 

"I know you said nothing I said will make you feel better," Pierre starts, fingers tapping a nonsensical rhythm onto Charles spine, "but maybe me taking you out for dinner will?"

Charles laughs, warms puffs of air against the tan of Pierre's neck, leans back so he can make eye contact.

"Thought you'd never ask," he jokes, and when Pierre gives him an amused smile, he takes the opportunity to sneak a small peck on the lips.

3.

Monza is a dream. It feels like some sort of divine intervention for Charles, wearing red and winning in Italy and hearing a neverending sea of tifosi screaming his name. There's tears pricking his eyes when he hears the Monaco national anthem and then the Italian, when he jumps up and down and sprays champagne onto the adoring masses below him.

The adrenaline keeps him buzzing long after the press conference, after the boring team meetings and debriefs and the trip back to the hotel room. It's silly, giddy, absolutely joyful the way he bounces on his feet to his hotel room, exhaustion refusing to set in despite its inevitability.

He's not really paying attention when the room key clicks the door open and he's being tugged inside and pushed against it, familiar pink lips hungrily after his own.

"Fucking incroyable," Pierre gasps into Charles mouth, lets the Monegasque lick into his mouth and emits and embarrassingly loud moan. "A..a winner for Ferrari. A champion," he practically whimpers, pulling his lips from Charles and biting a neat little mark onto the Monegasque's neck.

"Fuck, Pierre," Charles grins wildly, cupping Pierre's face with both hands and tugging him off for a moment, "You surprised me. Forgot I gave you a key," he laughs, forcing himself off the door and gently backing Pierre onto the bed.

"You have someone else who'd do this to you?" Pierre asks wryly, cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy and glances up at Charles straddling him.

"Nope," Charles answers decisively, smiling as he leans down to steal another sloppy kiss, "Fuck, today's been so amazing."

"What if I made it better?" Pierre wonders lowly, voice gravelling and pupils dilated to twice their normal size, consuming his grey-blue irises almost completely.

"Doubt you could do that," Charles laughs, but then stops when Pierre looks him over seriously and says "I want to ride you."

"Fuck," Charles groans, rolls his eyes at Pierre's devilish grin, lets the Frenchman's hands wander under his shirt and up his torso, lets Pierre scrape the skin there with blunt nails. 

"Alright, maybe I was wrong then. Maybe you can make it better," he whispers, gasping as Pierre's fingers dip under his waistband.

"Thought so," Pierre laughs, deflecting the soft whack and mumbled "smartass" Charles gives him with a disarming smile.

Yeah, Charles thinks, mind running absolutely silly with the way Pierre touches him, this is surely a dream.

4.

He doesn't knock when he enters Pierre's drivers' room, just invites himself in. It feels weirdly cramped with three people in it, Charles standing just inside the doorway like an intruder, Pyry leaning back and messing around with something on his phone in the office chair on the opposite side of the room, and Pierre curled up around himself on the couch, both arms wrapped around his abdomen.

"How is he?" Charles whispers, keeping his voice low in case Pierre's not awake. Pyry just shrugs, keeps his eyes on his phone but speaks equally softly.

"Not great. Better than earlier though. Fever's gone down some, and he's kept water down-"

It's a pathetically muffled voice that interrupts Pierre's trainer- the voice of the Frenchman himself, who remains still in the same position as before, but protests them talking about him like he's not in the room.

"I'm sick, not dead," he mumbles, tugging the Toro Rosso jacket around his shoulders a bit tighter. Charles takes it as a cue and shrugs off his own Ferrari jacket and lays it over the stricken Frenchman like a makeshift blanket, taking a moment to admire the juxtaposition of royal blue and bright red.

"Sorry," Charles says quietly in response, reaching to brush a strand of misplaced hair off Pierre's burning forehead.

"I'm going to go talk to the medical team," Pyry interrupts, looking to escort himself out of the admittedly intimate scene, "try to get some rest, P. I'll come and get you later, see if you feel okay enough for qualifying."

Pierre just sighs, nodding as much as he can with his head against the arm of the couch. The door clicks shut, and Charles lets out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

"How are you?" he asks, already assuming the answer won't be a positive one based upon the positioning of the room's small trashcan within close proximity of the sofa.

"Great," Pierre answers sarcastically, "only spent half of free practice at the toilet."

Charles winces, knows Pierre feels absolutely miserable but he can't do anything about it. He squats next to the sofa, fingers still playing with Pierre's tangled hair.

"You still did P7. That's damn impressive, babe," Charles replies, knowing it won't do much to make the Frenchman less like shit but still feeling the need to compliment him. Pierre manages a weak laugh but screws his eyes shut in pain. It startles Charles to see him feeling so poorly- they've grown up together, of course they've seen each other sick before, but nothing like this.

"Yeah," Pierre whispers, "Should've been in the car with me when I set that lap. Still 40 degrees and felt like I was going to throw up the whole time. Pyry dragged me from the car to here as soon as I got out. They've basically been pouring water down my throat all morning,"

"Trying to help you feel better," Charles whispers, fingers tracing the outline of Pierre's jaw. He knows the real truth in that statement- they're trying to at least hydrate Pierre enough so he doesn't flat out faint, so they can drag him out for qualifying, so they assure they can run two cars tomorrow, but swallows the thought away. "You should try to get some rest now, though."

"Yeah. I can't miss qualifying. Helmut would really demote me then," Pierre whispers once again, laughing humorlessly before curling in on himself even more and cradling Charles hand between his own like a child would a stuffed animal. "I don't want to get you sick, maybe you should-"

"Pierre. I'm not leaving you here alone while you feel so bad. Not happening. I won't get sick, promise," Charles cuts him off, squeezing his hand gently.

"Okay," Pierre mumbles, "If you're staying can I sleep in your lap?" he asks, voice sounding small.

"Only as long as you promise not to throw up on my suit," the Monegasque grins, but he's already sitting on the edge of the couch Pierre cleared for him, gently entangling a hand in the Frenchman's brunette bangs and Pierre shuffles and resettles himself to be more comfortable.

"No promises, sorry," he mumbles, eyes fluttering shut as he finally lets out a sigh of relief instead of pain. 

"It's okay, I've got another back at Ferrari. Feel better soon, Pierre," Charles whispers, quietly lulling the Frenchman into some rest.

+1

Charles is livid, practically prickling with anger. It's not fair, it's last race of the season, his last chance to convert a pole position into a win this year, and now some fucking midfielder has ruined it because they felt the need to fight for a position with a much faster car. He doesn't remember much, only fighting hard with a familiar blue car after a pit stop, seeing a flash of the number 10 on the nose before being hit and spun right into a barrier. Seeing red. Seeing the damned blue car continue. Hearing his engineer ask if he was okay, assure that Gasly would end up with a penalty for that. It doesn't matter, won't change the outcome of his race. 

He's nearing a boiling point when he finally gets back to the hotel, ready to punch something or someone or yell until his throat bleeds. As if on cue, the door clicks open and Pierre enters quietly, looking just as pissed as Charles feels. His jaw is set, clenched tightly, hands curled into defensive fists. They stand deceptively close to each other like two animals prepared to attack, to fight to the death over a carcass.

"What the fuck was that?" Charles starts the inevitable, voice sounding slightly higher pitched than normal.

"What the fuck was that? Are you asking me that?" Pierre snaps, voice calm but blue eyes lit with emotion, "You think you're someone special because you drive a Ferrari? That you can just push the midfield off the line because you're faster?"

"I was overtaking you cleanly, you fucki-" Charles stops himself, breathes in. "I was obviously faster, I should've had the line. Instead of a Toro Rosso hitting me and ruining the race I should've won!"

Pierre takes a step forward, daring Charles to react. "That's obviously not what the stewards thought, was it? According to them, I was still faster than you and you turned in on me."

"According to them," Charles mocks, "Do you want to go ask Helmut Marko who he thinks is faster, Pierre? Because I'm fucking sure it won't be you!"

That's what tips them both over the edge, grinds everything to a halt. Pierre looks shocked for only a second, immediately switches back into a rage Charles has never seen him wear before, his voice nearing a yell when he speaks again.

"You think you're so great now, in your fucking Ferrari, can't even admit you had to fight a Toro Rosso for eighth! You think you're already a world champion but you're not! You never will be with how immature and incosiderate you fucking act about races that don't go your way! I am so tired of it, Charles!"

Charles feels his mouth open, gape while he takes on the weight of what they've just said to each other. Pierre stands stiff, still nearly trembling in anger. His arms are crossed, still covered by the thin blue material of his Toro Rosso jacket, and if Charles didn't have self control he'd rip the offensive piece of clothing right off. The silence permeates the atmosphere like pestilence.

"Pierre," he finally says, voice composed even though he feels anything but, "I think you should go."

Pierre looks momentarily stricken, like he regrets everything he's just said, and Charles feels a lot of the same, but then his features harden and he's throwing his backpack back over one shoulder.

"I love you," Pierre speaks, voice still tinged with anger as he appraoches the hotel room door, "but not right now."

"Yeah. Love you too. We'll talk about this later," Charles finishes, practically slamming the door right in Pierre's face.

**Author's Note:**

> thank yall for reading and sticking with me through all my weird one off publications, leaving me lovely feedback, hell even just deciding to click this to give it a chance means the world to me!


End file.
